Quoted By:
No one gets to hear the Black Priest's final order.
Not you. Not the horde of abominations he has conjured and bred in the shadowed vales of the highland mountains. Not your men, who slowly but surely are being pushed back to the breach in the southern wall. Most certainly not the children, who should not have been exposed to this blasphemy in the first place.
He has fallen deathly silent. After all, it is rather difficult for a man to speak when his chest has been run through by the blade of sword-lance that is as broad as your father's hand. Its golden steel pierces through his robe and the maille he wears beneath as though it were not there at all, sprouting from his back like the bud of a golden flower. Only the guard where the blade meets the haft keeps him from falling forward... or charging through like a stuck boar.
"Foolish knight..." the black priest coughs, spitting out blood. "N-Now n-nothing can h-h-hold back th-"
You care nothing for his words, and have no time for them. Letting the Light of the Lord surge through your body, the blade of your lance flashes white and fills his body with a scourging holy light. It scours away the impurities of his soul, that whatever is left may be fit to join the Chorus of the Afterlife.
From how the Light of the Lord cracks through his skin and turns his body to ash... you suspect that dreadfully little will make it to the choir invisible. Perhaps a few specs from his youth.
"Madame, we have a problem!" Boric shouts to you from behind the wall of lances. "We're killing these bastards, but they're getting back up! What devilry of Black Pit this that heretic conjure?"
You take a second look at the horde, whose rage has been concentrated upon the wall of men-at-arms. The high-orcs and hobgoblins fall one by one, but their corpses reek with the foul miasma of necromancy. You cannot say how long it takes, but you can see the black mists swirl and the demonic creatures shamble back onto their feet. Weaker, rotting, but even if they fall again they will only rise back up.
"The sort the King won't pardon!" you shout back to him.
A number of hobgoblins stray from the pack when they hear your voice, charging at you and the children. You impale one upon your lance, and crush the skull its companion with a gauntleted fist that held fast to the Light of the Lord. Both of them turn to ash, as does the last one who thought he might take a wider path around you. A broad stroke of your sword-lance took its head, its blessed nature returning the undead beast to dust.
"Blessed weapons can put them down!" you call to Boric. He already turns to one of the rearguard, who begins to dig through their bags. Still, best to give the order, and fill your men-at-arms with certainty. "Anoint as many lances as you can with holy water! I will-" <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">Roll 1d20 and 1d100</span></span>
>Rejoin you soon! (Help the kids escape, then focus on aiding your men)
>Join the fray! (RIP AND TEAR)
>Protect the children!
>(Write in)
